The Apocalypse Watch (71 page)

With the sudden interruption, Karin sprang out of her captor’s arms as Witkowski pulled his second automatic from under his raincoat. When De Vries ducked, he fired two shots, one into the neo’s forehead, the other into his throat.

“
Mon Dieu!
” screamed the woman on the staircase, racing up the steps.

Latham ran to Karin, holding her fiercely, his arms two clamps of enormous strength. “I’m all right, my darling, I’m all right!” she said, seeing the tears that streamed down his face. “My poor dear,” she went on, “it’s over, Drew.”

“The
hell
it is!” yelled the colonel, holding the two live neos under his gun. The Nazi he had wounded was getting up from the floor. “Here,” said Stanley, picking up his and Latham’s weapons and handing one to De Vries. “Cover this scumbucket who can walk, and I’ll shove the other sleaze after us. You,
chłopak
, use your fancy telephone
and call Durbane at the embassy! Get us wheels back there!”

“I can’t do that, Stosh.”

“Why the hell
not
?”

“He may be one of them.”

It was midnight Washington time, and Wesley Sorenson studied the materials sent over by Knox Talbot from the CIA files. He had been studying them for hours, all fifty-one dossiers, looking for that relevant piece of information that would separate one suspect from the others. His concentration had been interrupted by Claude Moreau’s frantic phone call from Paris, describing Latham’s outrageous behavior.

“He may be on to something, Claude,” Wesley said soothingly.

“If he was, he should have told us, not acted alone. I will not tolerate this!”

“Give him time—”

“Absolutely
no
. He’s out of Paris, out of France!”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“He’s already done it,
mon ami
.”

Later, after an awkward conversation with an equally furious Witkowski, Moreau had called back at five o’clock in the morning Paris time. The storm-tossed horizon began to brighten. Drew had delivered a bona fide neo in the guise of a Protestant minister.

“I must admit, he’s somewhat validating his existence,” the Frenchman had said.

“Then you’ll let him stay in Paris?”

“On a very tight leash, Wesley.”

Returning to the selected possibles among the material sent over by the CIA, the Cons-Op chief proceeded to weed out the obvious negatives much as Knox had done. From the remaining twenty-four, he pared further based on the time-honored principles of motive and opportunity, plus an element Sorenson called “why cubed,” or why to the third power; beyond the first and second motives, another was invariably hidden. Finally, as a result of an adult lifetime of searching for the elusive, there were three
probables, to be expanded if none proved accurate. Each suspect had what he termed a “neutral” face, physiognomies that lacked the definition of sharp features, the sort political cartoonists emphasize. Second, none held a position of influence or high profile, either of which would disqualify the risk-taking. However, each was part of, or had access to, teams of examiners, either as couriers or researchers. Third, each lived beyond his apparent means.

Peter Mason Payne
. Recruitment development as per division’s requirements. Married with two children; residence a $400,000 house in Vienna, Virginia, complete with a recently added pool, estimated cost, $60,000. Automobiles: Cadillac Brougham and a Range Rover.

Bruce N.M.I. Withers
. Office procurement validation, one of many. Divorced, one daughter, limited visiting rights. Former wife living on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, $600,000 house reportedly purchased by her parents. Subject’s residence, condominium in Fairfax’s high-rent district. Automobile: Jaguar SJ6.

Roland Vasquez-Ramirez
. Third-level researcher and coordinator, of which there were four, with the upper two levels. Married, no children. Residence, upscale garden apartment complex in Arlington. Wife, a bottom-rung attorney at the Justice Department. Known frequenters of expensive restaurants, clothes custom-made. Automobiles: Porsche and Lexus.

Those were the essential facts, none provably relevant until one studied the inter-Agency relationships. Peter Mason Payne sought recruits as specific abilities were required. Perforce, he had to question the various divisions and legitimately ask for examples of subject matter to gain a clearer picture. Bruce Withers’s job was to justify the enormous expenditures for office equipment, including complex electronics. Quite correctly, he had to observe, even operate, certain machines himself, in order to ask a superior to sign off on huge purchase orders. Roland Vasquez-Ramirez coordinated the flow of information among three levels of researchers. Granted, there were extraordinary restrictions, sealed envelopes, et al, and a man violating them would not only lose his job but conceivably be
prosecuted. Nevertheless, those restrictions, often innocently violated in the interest of expedience, would not stop an enemy of the state who did so with an absence of innocence.

All three men fit the composite of the neo mole. They had the motives to maintain their lifestyles, opportunities due to the access their positions permitted … what was lacking was the abstract “why cubed.” What drove any of them to go beyond all that and become a traitor? A Nazi who had killed two captured Nazis. And then he thought he might have found it, but only
might have
. Each candidate was essentially a messenger, a liaison between superiors; none had real authority himself. Payne studied résumés of applicants, and those he advanced soon made far more money than he did. Withers could only recommend extraordinary purchases, purchases that made those demanding them even more efficient—and how many were on the receiving end of kickbacks while he got nothing? S.O.P. And Vasquez-Ramirez was
really
a messenger, collating sealed envelopes A, B, and C, secrets for others to evaluate, while he stayed out of the loop. And each had been at his innocuous job, his decisions easily overruled, for a number of years with little chance of advancement. Such men were hotbeds of resentment.

There wasn’t time to intellectualize any longer, to analyze further. Either he was right, considered Sorenson, or he was wrong, which meant going back to the drawing board. As he had taught Drew Latham in the early stages of his training, sometimes a frontal assault was best, especially if it was totally unexpected. He wondered if Drew had used the strategy in trapping the neo minister. If not specifically, concluded Wesley, certainly a variation. With the constraints of time, there wasn’t much alternative. He reached for the telephone.

“Peter Mason Payne, if you please?”

“This is Pete Payne, who’s this?”

“Kearns at the Agency,” answered Sorenson, using the name of a relatively well-known deputy director. “We’ve never met, Pete, and I’m sorry to bother you at this hour—”

“No trouble, Mr. Kearns, I’m watching television in my den. My wife went to bed; she said it was rotten and she was right.”

“Then you don’t mind breaking away for a few minutes?”

“Not at all. What can I do for you, sir?”

“It’s a little touchy, Pete, but the reason I’m calling you now is that you may be asked upstairs in the morning, and it’s possible you might want to consider your answers.”

“
What
answers? What
questions
?” Peter Mason Payne might not be the killer mole, thought Wesley, but he was taking something from somebody. It was in the gasp that had preceded his words.

“We’ve had severe problems in recruitment, so we’re holding evaluation meetings, have been holding them damn near around the clock. Several of your recommendations have been sorely underqualified, costing the Company a lot of wasted man-hours.”

“Then it was the résumés, or the applicants were rehearsed for interviews, Mr. Kearns. I never advanced anyone I didn’t believe could do the job, and I never took money under the table for a recommendation!”

“I see.”
So that was it
, mused Sorenson.
The denial was too quick, the inference had not even been made
. “But I didn’t suggest that, did I, Peter?”

“No, but I’ve heard the rumors—wealthy families wanting their kids in the Agency for a couple of years because it looks good when they go after other jobs.… I’m not saying it’s not
possible
a few slipped through, due, as I say, to false information and rehearsed interview responses, but you’d have to look to other recruiters for those things.
They
could supply that information,
I
never did!”

Thank God you’ve been kept out of the field, Mr. Payne
, thought the Cons-Op director,
you’d last eleven seconds
. However, Peter Payne had just led him to the conclusive question. “Then maybe one of the others is trying to lay something on you. You see, the parents of one of our underqualified say they met with a recruiter in the
early morning hours the night before last to make their final payment.”

“For Christ’s sake, not
me
!”

“Where were you, Pete?”

“Hell, that’s easy.” The relief in Payne’s voice was, well, painful. “My wife and I were up the street at Congressman Erlich’s home for a late-night neighborhood barbecue—late because the House stayed in session. We were there until around two-thirty in the morning, and frankly, Mr. Kearns, none of us cared to get into a car and drive anywhere.”

Candidate Rejected

“Mr. Bruce Withers, please?”

“No one else lives here, pal. Who are you?”

Sorenson repeated the Deputy Director Kearns introduction, now zeroing in on the constant and considerable overruns on office procurements.

“High technology’s expensive, Mr. Director. There’s nothing I can do about that, and, frankly, it’s not in my province to make those decisions.”

“But it is in your province to make recommendations, isn’t it?”

“Somebody has to do the initial spec work, and that’s what I do.”

“Say there’s a competitive bid for a more powerful computer in the range of a hundred thousand dollars. Your word means a great deal, doesn’t it?”

“Not if my bosses know a megabyte from their elbows.”

“But most of them don’t, do they?”

“Some do, some don’t.”

“So with those who don’t, your recommendation is probably accepted, wouldn’t you say that?”

“Probably. I do my homework.”

“And there could be instances when the selection of a certain company could benefit you, couldn’t it?”

“Stop with those kind of questions’. What are you trying to pin on me?”

“A payoff was made the other night, early morning to
be precise, by a Seattle firm with lobbyists here in Washington. We’d like to know if it was you.”

“This is
bullshit
,” cried Withers, almost breathless. “Excuse me, Mr. Director, but I’m deeply offended. I’ve been at this lousy job for seven years now because I know high tech better than anyone else, and it’s
nowheresville
! I can’t be replaced, so I don’t go up, or even down, which has to tell you something.”

“I don’t mean to offend you, Bruce, I just want to know where you were at three o’clock in the morning the night before last.”

“You don’t have any right to ask that.”

“I think I do. That’s when the payoff was made.”

“Listen, Mr. Kearns, I’m a divorced man and I have to find my pleasures where I can, if you understand me.”

“I believe I do. Where were you?”

“With a married woman whose husband is out of the country. Her husband’s a general.”

“Will she back you up?”

“I can’t give you her name.”

“We’ll find out, you know that.”

“Yeah, I guess you will.… All right, we spent this evening here, and she just left. The general’s on an inspection tour in the Far East and calls her around one o’clock—God forbid he should upset a military schedule for a lonely wife. It’s the story of her marriage.”

“Very touching, Bruce. What’s her name?”

“It takes her twenty, twenty-five minutes to get home.”

“Her name, please?”

“Anita Griswald, General Andrew Griswald’s wife.”

“ ‘Mad Andy’ Griswald? The scourge of Vietnam’s Songchow? He’s pretty old, isn’t he?”

“For the army, definitely. Anita’s his fourth wife. She’s much younger, and the Pentagon’s keeping him on loose duty until they can get rid of him next year, which, I gather, they’d like to do as soon as possible.”

“Why did she ever marry him?”

“She was broke and had three kids. Enough questions, Mr. Director.”

Candidate Still Open

“Mr. Vasquez-Ramirez, if you please?”

“Just a moment,” said a female voice, slightly accented with Hispanic inflections. “My husband is on the other telephone, but he will be finished quickly. Who shall I say is calling?”

“Deputy Director Kearns, Central Intelligence Agency, Counselor.”

“You know I am a lawyer?… Oh, but of course you do.”

“I apologize for calling so late, but it’s urgent.”

“It would have to be, señor. My husband works long hours for you, sometimes until late in the evenings. I wish you paid him accordingly, if I may be so bold to suggest. Please hold.”

Silence.
There were no records of Vasquez-Ramirez working late hours
. Forty-five seconds later, “Rollie” Ramirez came on the line. “Mr. Kearns, what’s so urgent?”

“Leaks in your department, Mr. Vasquez-Ramirez.”

“Please, we’ve met, sir.
Rollie
or
Ramirez
is sufficient.”

“It saves time, I’ll say that.”

“Do you have a cold, Mr. Kearns? You don’t sound like yourself.”

“It’s the flu, Ramirez. I can hardly breathe.”

“Rum, hot tea, and lemon will relieve you.… Now, what are these leaks and how can I assist you?”

“They’ve been traced to your section.”

“In which there are four of us,” broke in the Hispanic. “Why call me?”

“I’ll call the others; you’re first on the list.”

“Because my skin is not as pale as the others?”

“Oh, cut that out!”

“No, I don’t ‘cut it out,’ for it’s the truth. The spic is the first you go after.”